Marlene twirled her fork in the linguine alle vongole. She saw Pedro, the head cook, watching her from the kitchen’s swinging doors. She smiled. If only her father accepted him, she wouldn’t need to sneak. Tonight she would wait for him by her mother’s head stone, a place her father would never look. She left her plate untouched. “My father works late tonight. I’ll go home and get ready for Pedro.”

“I’m clocking out.”

“Nice job tonight, Pedro. And remember what I told you about my daughter. She’s too young for you.”

“Yes.” Pedro averted the old man’s eyes. “I will wait for her then.”

“That’s best.” The old man sighed, appreciating Pedro’s honesty.

She wore the modest black dress, the one Pedro liked. Pedro. His name alone delighted every part of her. She waited for love with the pain of anticipation. To distract her, she read the words on the gravestone.

“Loving wife and mother taken by her own hands

Merciful God, forgive her.”

She wished for a word, a mother’s advice, a discourse, an approval, a sign.